


Hallowed Be Thy Name

by lineslines



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Crowley - Freeform, M/M, Praise Kink, come join me in prayer sinners, or you might call it....pray kink, this is holy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 12:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19701388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lineslines/pseuds/lineslines
Summary: “Fold your hands, and… pray to me.” There was light in Aziraphale’s eyes, and behind it, coming into that light like a moth to a flame, a basic angelic instinct: Praise me, praise me. I’m holy. “Please?”





	Hallowed Be Thy Name

**Author's Note:**

> in this one azi has the praise kink (he is an angel after all)   
> tread carefully, this is nsfw. not too explicit, but certainly naughty.

“Pray to me.”

“You… what…” Crowley gasped, his hands fisting into the bed sheets.

Aziraphale licked his lips, swallowing a faint trace of nervosity, and realized that what he had spoken as a slip-of-the-tongue, a faint thought turned Word in the foggy chaos of his mind, was a true desire. 

He always felt Holy in Crowley’s hands–oh, and in his eyes too, in everything he did. But right now, feeling was not enough. He needed to hear it.

He needed words. He needed prayer. Complete devotion. 

In front of him Crowley squirmed, his long back winding and curving under him and, oh, What a sight to behold! 

“Fold your hands, and… pray to me.” There was light in Aziraphale’s eyes, and behind it, coming into that light like a moth to a flame, a basic angelic instinct: _Praise me, praise me. I’m holy._ “Please?”

“Angel…” Crowley moaned, sounding both delighted and intrigued. 

“Yes, that’s right,” he breathed, softly. “I am an angel.”

Aziraphale looked down, looked at the demon in front of him, on his knees, with his head bent and his face pressed into the pillow, and he felt Old Power inside him, felt the fires of creation itself. 

And then he watched Crowley bring his hands together without another word of opposition, watched him slowly interlace his long fingers–and the demon and the angel, they were both shaking. 

“Aziraphale…” His prayer began: “Hallowed be thy name…”

“Oh…” There was a tingling sensation inside of Aziraphale, not the tingling of his human body, no, something far more ethereal and shapeless. It was being called upon. 

Aziraphale’s hips moved forward, pushing deeper, and Crowley made a strangled sound.

“I– ngk– I _praise_ you, and, and, and let me receive thy gifts…”

_You shall receive them._

Aziraphale shuddered, letting the words nourish the greedy thing in his soul. It was hungry. And starved. How long had it been… oh, he was made for this. _More._

“Thank thee for thy– _grace_! Oh!” Crowley gasped.

_You shall receive my grace._

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale smiled breathlessly, forgetting himself in movement: his hands caressing Crowley’s back, his hips being met by Crowley’s hips, his length filling him so deeply. _Oh, Heaven on Earth_. _No, better. Just Earth. Just us._ There was only this moment: the feeling, and the words. 

Oh, this was more than earthly pleasure. This was a joining beyond human capability, beyond flesh. It felt like music to his ears. Like choirs, like a hundred voices in unity, coming together to sing (his, _his_ ) praise.

It swept over him like a wave, and he let himself be swept along. Basked in it. Who had known a demon’s prayer would resound so deeply? Perhaps it came from a place further than any human could ever go, held more loss and longing than an angel could ever fathom, reached across a divide wider than millenia, higher than Heaven and deeper than Hell. His heart ached in a good way. Aziraphale closed his eyes, turning his face to the heavens as his hips pushed down to earth. (To him.) 

His fingers dug into skinny hips. 

And Crowley pushed against him, surrendering, and continued in a strained whisper, fumbling for long forgotten words that suddenly tasted like Light on his tongue. It didn’t burn, nor melt. It felt warm. It was Aziraphale’s light. 

“Angele Dei,  
qui custos es mei,  
Me tibi commissum pietate superna;”

The words filled Aziraphale, like a whisper rising to a cry, and he felt like he was falling and flying, he wasn’t quite sure, but it didn’t matter, because he was _holy_ and he was _his_ , he was an Angel of the Lord but more so he was an Angel of Crowley, and he exalted in the knowledge and the love and the _pleasure_ that swept over him–

And somewhere, pulling him from those depths, Crowley’s voice reached him, and it was distorted in delight.

“Aziraphale, I can–I can feel it too!”

To know Crowley shared This–their joined prayer, the gentle-yet-immense power coursing through his veins, the utter unconditional completion conjured by holy words–it was enough to send him tumbling, falling, flying, flying and _burning_ –

“Veni, sancte spiritus,” Crowley gasped, and shivered when above him Aziraphale came undone in an explosion of light. It was soft, and it felt like the angel was everywhere, scattered into a million particles of light about the room, as if his body was not enough to hold him. 

The air blistered with divine power, and Crowley let himself be lulled by it, let it comfort him in a way he had not let it (had not been able to let it) in millenia. 

Because this prayer was different: This love was not for God.

It was for him. (It was for them.)

Here, in this space between them, his prayers were answered. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Hallowed Be Thy Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266723) by [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic)




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